


Sheer Drop

by magicasen



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, New Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Community: 616kinkmeme, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, M/M, New Avengers Vol. 3 (2013), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen/pseuds/magicasen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are worse things to do to each other than murder.</p><p>Set during New Avengers #17.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sheer Drop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



> Okay, so it's five months late, but hey! I finally finished writing you your T'Challa/Namor hatesex! So it's not so...sexy...but at least there's lots of hatred and wanting to kill each other! I think that makes up for a lot.
> 
> This is in response to [this](http://616kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1418.html?thread=8074#cmt8074) prompt: _I would very much enjoy some Hickmanvengers T'Challa/Namor angry hatesex knifeplay. (T'Challa's claws are also more than acceptable in place of knives.) Put the blade where it belongs, people._

For the first time he could recall in a long, long while, T'Challa couldn't stop laughing. Surrounded by the images of Earths erupting in flames, sharing a wine that could rival Wakanda's own alongside the man who'd almost torn the kingdom part. Only such an ugly, twisted fit for the City of the Dead and its disgraced ruler could be worthy of such a moment.

Namor slapped him heartily on the back, and the moment came to a swift death.

T'Challa smacked Namor away with a force that sent him reeling back. “You will lay your hands on me again when you're prepared for me to make good on my promise.”

The warning didn't faze Namor. He lilted sideways, arching an eyebrow, propping a hand to his hip, any lingering camaraderie vanished.

“Your threats mean nothing,” he sneered. “Have you not been listening? Is your mind so stuffed with bloated _nobility_ and ignorance that you didn't understand? We're fallen kings, driven to feats that make us worth less than the scum on the seafloor. I _know_ you, T'Challa. I understand you better than anyone who thought they knew you.” 

There was a rush of anger and heat; T'Challa scoffed them away. “Do you want me to congratulate you? You've seen me at my worst. But I'm not so lost as to say that the person I am now is truer to myself than when I was king.”

Namor snorted. “Well, let us see. Who knew you while you were king? Your ex-wife, who forsake you because she had greater loyalties. Your sister, who banished you from your own city after she witnessed me. Are you sure you're as much of an inspiration as you fancy yourself?”

“Don't try to provoke me, Namor. You'll regret it when it works. I wouldn't have demanded Ororo sever ties to her previous family. And all of Wakanda despises you, Namor, Shuri included. I regret betraying her trust, but I won't fault her for her reaction.” The nails of T'Challa's fingers dug into his skin.

“But for her, in the worst way possible. Having her brother listen to his libido over the honor of his people must have felt like a literal stab in the back.”

The ensuing silence was stifling, T'Challa's throat thick with the threat of choking.

“What did you just say?” he finally managed to grit out.

Namor's grin was barely concealed. “Surely you're not that great a fool. You think the force of her response was merely because she found me?” He shook his head slowly. “She thinks we're having an affair.” Namor threw up his hands. “Why, my king, she believes we're _fucking.”_

“Hah! Shuri knows I have honor. She knows I would never stoop so low.” But in his mind, he recalled the look of disgust on her face, repulsion that he'd passed off as similar to his own disdain for the fish-king.

“And that's why she barred you from entering the city after you were unable to explain how it came to be that I would regularly come to visit you. In private, I might add.”

The pieces were falling into place, but perhaps that was only because he'd refused to examine them too closely before. T'Challa thought he might vomit at the mere thought, just like Shuri would have.

“And what of you?” he demanded. “You taunt my loss only to hide that you have nothing left to your name. Nothing that you have a hold to.”

Those words didn't faze Namor, but then again, did anything, anymore? “I have this, at least.” Namor dangled the wine bottle between his fingers. “And I can be assured that for myself, pieces still remain. If I was unable to make other powerful men want to rip my throat out, then I truly would have nothing left.”

And they would all be the better for it. T'Challa shook his head, looking blankly at the wall, caught up in his thoughts.

“And _now_ what ails our most tortured, tragic kingly figure?” Namor said, after a long silence.

If he was brought to anger, it would be exactly what Namor wanted, some proof that he still had influence even if only over the men who hated him. But the annoyance flicked at T'Challa regardless. “My sister.”

“Still, you fixate on that? It was much easier when we were wallowing in our kingly losses rather than our personal ones.”

“It _would_ be easier.” T'Challa looked up. “It would be easier if her thoughts were true.” His voice began to raise. “That would be far more simple than everything else that has been stripped from us. That's where we've ended up, where even the prospect of fucking you, murderer of my people, is better than reality.”

He saw Namor's face twitch, his fists clench, before his expression smoothed over. “So it has become.”

Then he reached over, eyes eerily bright and self-assured. Right, T'Challa had seen that look before, on the faces of men before they were to meet their execution.

Namor laid a hand on T'Challa's shoulder.

T'Challa flung his arm out, the strike not connecting. The energy blades he'd shot sizzled against the far wall. Before they could clatter to the floor, T'Challa surged forward, knocking Namor to the floor. He swayed out of the way of a punch, slamming a knee against Namor's shoulder. The impact was muffled, and T'challa had a mind to try again, closer to the collarbone this time, just to hear the crunch.

Namor brought his fist around in a hook, and T'Challa saw stars, the side of his head throbbing. But there had been no leverage behind the punch, and he didn't topple over. This time, when T'Challa brought his hand down, it was to fit the edges of bladed claws under Namor's chin.

He pressed up, and as Namor lifted his chin, he spat in T'Challa's face. T'Challa could have screamed. He moved the claws down, pressing one against an Adam's apple, another against the jugular.

“Our little clandestine group was never meant to be friends.” Namor's voice was choked, and T'Challa felt the throat bob beneath the claws. “But the others have known of your threats toward me. Why do you suppose they still allow us alone together, if you're supposed to kill me?”

They both knew the answer. It was because T'Challa had given up doing things for himself the moment he'd encountered Black Swan, that day in Wakanda.

It was because, even here, a few centimeters away from the act he'd dreamed of committing, he wouldn't kill Namor.

The idea struck T'Challa then. “There is worse we could do to each other than murder.”

Namor laughed lowly, and T'Challa saw how his eyes flicked down to the claws at his throat.

T'Challa leaned back, Namor not taking advantage of the opening allowed him, body stilled. T'Challa trailed his free hand down Namor's body, past the exposed chest, below the golden belt, and rested on top of a bump, unmistakable through the skin-tight layer. He saw how realization dawned, and Namor let out a bark, disbelieving of laughter.

“Oh, that would do it,” said Namor, one side of his lips quirking up.

T'Challa kneaded the lump there, feeling it tense under his fingers, and feeling Namor's throat do the same under his claws.

“What are you waiting for?” Namor stared at him. “Do it.” Hatred, not amusement, blazed in Namor's eyes, and that was how T'Challa knew this was no dare. There was no mockery in that voice. This was as serious as either of them could get.

He pushed down without care.

Namor gritted his teeth, bringing his own hand up and began to work on T'Challa in tandem, without comfort, or mercy, far past this side of painful. T'Challa snarled, faltering for a second, before beginning with renewed vengeance.

He concentrated on the feeling of Namor's neck, his claws pressed sharply to the skin – how periodic gulps ran the heartbeat under the skin, through his claws, how applying the right amount of pressure wouldn't draw blood but made Namor's hips jerk up in response, instead.

If T'Challa dug in hard enough, then there was no chance for the other man's life. But he had to get close, to teeter on the edge, in retaliation for what this man had done, for what the world had done, the despicableness reflected in everywhere red skies touched. If he pushed too far, if blood exploded all over his fingers, then there was no coming back from the fall. But just imagine if he could, then it would be warm and encompassing like nothing else was anymore, as far from this as they could get –

Orgasm came like being punched in the gut, the shock draining breath from T'Challa. He felt fogged, and ground the flat of his palm down on Namor.

Namor seized under him, lifting his lips and his throat in the same instance, his teeth bared, and T'Challa felt the dampness spread beneath his hand.

The next few moments were filled with nothing but panting. Finally, T'Challa moved away, his knees thumping against the floor as he brought his fingers away from Namor's throat, neither of them meeting each other's eyes. He studied the ends of the claws, where no red gleamed.

It didn't matter if he couldn't see any blood. The edge was something that he, and the rest of the damned men on this godforsaken journey, had toppled over long ago.


End file.
